his for the taking
by vindictive trollop
Summary: Eventually, he turned his head to look back at her, though his attention was more drawn to the way her riotous curls spilled out over the pillow, striking black spirals among the dark silk of the pillowcase, and her hand which she had placed only inches beside his.


"My Lord?"

A hiss left pale lips; he opened his eyes as the familiar voice broke through his mind, interrupting his thoughts. A spidery, paper-white hand crept over the silken sheets and pressed over her chest, forcing her back down from where she had risen up moments previously, looking down at him with all of the wide-eyed, breathless concern that he knew was but the aftermath of one of her pitiful little dreams—or nightmares, rather, though the difference did not matter to him.

Either way, Bellatrix woke easily from dreams, whether with a pleasured trembling gasp or one of horror and would immediately look to him, or whatever blank space that he had once been in. He knew his most loyal well; her every secret was not a secret to him, her every wish and hope and dream and fear and thought was his and his alone. He did not have to peel those secrets from the interior of her mind; he need only demand her tell him anything he wished to know and she would do so.

Unhesitatingly. Loyal to the very end, even and especially through the way her mind had been warped, the surface crumpled inwards like a hollowed-out shell broken in from the outside from her time in Azkaban. His favorite, his most loyal, most worshipful, most talented in many aspects—it was why he had allowed her such luxuries, the luxury of knowing him, of touching him, of going so far as to lie in the same bed as him.

"I am here, Bellatrix," he murmured coolly, touching her for only as long as it was necessary. It was not necessary for long; as soon as she had been pushed back onto the bed, he returned his hand to where it had previously laid, stationary, at his side, taking up the small space between himself and his servant.

He listened to the sound of Bellatrix's breathing slow from its quick pace into something more controlled, something softer, until it was so quiet that he could not hear it unless he truly paid attention. "I am sorry if I disturbed you, my Lord," Bellatrix whispered in the darkness, her tone as soft and worshipful as it ever was when she addressed him—and he took some kind of pleasure in knowing that it was hideous and twisted with hatred and distaste when she spoke to anyone else.

"You did," he responded bluntly, red eyes directed at the ceiling and nowhere else. She was quiet—perhaps she had no simpering retort for that, but then it came.

"May I make it up to you, my Lord?"

The corner of his mouth twisted in disgust at the thought, and at the dripping sultry note that had entered his faithful's voice. "No."

Bellatrix stilled, and then slowly rolled onto her side. He could only catch the edges of her movements from his peripheral vision, but that was enough. The woman said nothing, only watched him—stared at his face with unblinking eyes, as though to blink would mean his sudden disappearance. It was ridiculous, but he allowed it, did not punish her for such obvious gawking. It was Bellatrix, after all—no amount of pain or scolding would stop her from doing what she did best.

Eventually, he turned his head to look back at her, though his attention was more drawn to the way her riotous curls spilled out over the pillow, striking black spirals among the dark silk of the pillowcase, and her hand which she had placed only inches beside his. He sneered at the sight. Of course she would never dare to actually take his hand—she was not unintelligent, only...desirous, but even she would not be such a fool.

Bellatrix smiled at him, not so widely as to flash the rotting teeth inside of her mouth but enough for her lips to curve at either side and a glinting light to enter her dark eyes.

Lord Voldemort looked away at the sight, a part of him wanting to roll his eyes and another part wishing to bury a hand in her hair, stroking nonsensical patterns along her scalp, watching her purr beneath his touch. He did neither of those things, however—instead, he closed his eyes.

Bellatrix emitted a sound that was not entirely unlike a blissful sigh.

"Sleep, Bellatrix," he ordered, hissing her name.

"Yes, my Lord," she whispered back, and was silent.

* * *

The second time he awoke, she was still there and the beginning flickers of sunshine were peering through the windows. He flicked his wand and murmured _Tempus_ and in the air, red numbers flashed— _7:22._ He waved his wand again and they disappeared, and he climbed from the bed, inadvertently awaking Bellatrix in the process. She let out a quiet, discontent grumble and muttered, "Where d'you think you're going, Rodolphus—" and then she opened her eyes wide and sat up so quickly it was as though someone had took hold of her spine and jerked it straight, staring at him.

He quirked a non-existent brow, staring down at the woman tangled up in the sheets. " _Rodolphus,_ Bellatrix?" he hissed her husband's name and drew out the last letter in hers in a similar manner.

"My Lord! I _apologize—_ " She stumbled gracelessly from the bed to kneel before him; he stared down at her, at the trembling stretch of her arms and the thin arch of her back, and reached down to place a hand on the top of her head, fingertips curling against her scalp beneath all of that tangled hair. Azkaban had not had only a mental but also a physical effect on her; it was clear in the way her ribs protruded from beneath her deathly pale skin, in the way that her eyes bulged—thick knots had been cut from her hair by Narcissa but nothing else, as his most loyal had protested—very vocally—against the idea of shortening her hair.

"I am willing to overlook such a mistake, Bella."

He could see two things happen, almost simultaneously: the tension that came with the anticipation of awaiting a punishment drained easily from her form, leaving her slumped and murmuring grateful things in soft whispers at his feet—and the second, the shiver that ran through her entire body when he called her _Bella,_ curling his tongue around the shortening of her name.

"Thank you, my Lord," she breathed, staring up at him with nothing but reverence in her gaze.

"Come," he said, flicking his wand over himself; in a few seconds, he was dressed in his usual cascade of dark robing, and he turned and walked towards the door without looking back to see if she would follow. It was unnecessary—she always followed, often even when he did not demand it.

They ate—or, rather, Bellatrix ate—in the dining room of Malfoy Manor, a plate full of breakfast delivered to her by two whimpering house elves—siblings, Till and Toll—that never looked directly at him. But then, no one ever looked directly at him. Except for the one who was doing just that right now.

Bellatrix sat there, not eating. Instead, she watched him—stared at him with the same worshipful gaze that she always stared at him with, eyes tracing across his features like she wanted to memorize them for all of eternity. He knew that was indeed what she wanted. Perhaps she even wanted to touch them—no, there was no perhaps about it. She would always take whatever opportunity that was given to touch him, but a table separated them now.

"Bellatrix," Voldemort said coldly, pushing her full plate closer to her. The command went unspoken, but he did not need to verbalize it at all. _Eat._

In a most reluctant way, she dragged her stare away from his face and looked down at her plate; she drew a slice of bacon from it and nibbled on the edge, sinking the tines of her fork into an egg and watching the yolk spill out, saturating everything else on the plate. She made a noise of disgust.

Voldemort stretched an arm out, careful not to drag his robe's sleeve through a mess of yolk as he reached over Bellatrix's plate to take her face in his hand, tipping her head upwards. She stared at him wide-eyed for a moment, and then her eyes fluttered weakly and she pushed her jaw closer against the palm of his hand, ever-needy. "Master..."

"Eat, Bellatrix," he said, and let go. A keening noise left her throat as she leaned forward to follow his hand, but she took one look at him and lowered herself obediently back into her seat and, pouting like a child who had not gotten her way, took a sausage link and bit it in half. And then she glanced at him, with a rare flicker of audacity—it seemed as though she was saying with her gaze alone, _happy now?_

Voldemort watched her until nearly half of her plate was empty—and then he nodded, satisfied, and she slumped back into her seat, her lower lip protruding from beneath the upper—she was pouting. He did not acknowledge it, as he did not acknowledge much of what Bellatrix did; instead, he stood from his seat and made his way out of the dining room without another glance back, and heard only seconds later the screech of the legs of Bellatrix's chair scraping against the floor and her footsteps hurrying after him, scrambling to catch up with his long strides.

She did, eventually—as she always did, and he didn't so much as shoot her a single glance as he made his way up the stairs, her presence a constant behind him. Once, it would have been a source of irritation, an ever-lingering presence like hers—overwhelming in its needy desire for attention, but she had been with him the longest, had been unwaveringly loyal, and she deserved to be rewarded for such loyalty. Such as his allowing her to stay at his side, such as his not punishing her for what he would surely punish any of his other followers for.

"My Lord," she whispered, her voice soft and traveling, only once they were on the second floor of Malfoy Manor and walking through the corridor to where the largest guest room—converted into his quarters—was. Slitted red eyes flicked to her hunched form—and he sneered in instinctive disgust. What had once been a proud, even attractive woman had turned into this ghost, this shell of her former self—dark circles heavy under her sunken, half-lidded eyes, each bone protruding unpleasantly from beneath her pale flesh.

It was more difficult to see her thin form, draped as it was in robes—he could not see each rib like he could when they laid together, but the sleeved corseted top she wore bore her neck and much of her chest in a way that was not entirely unattractive, but still revealed much of what Azkaban had done to her—wasting her away, all ash and bone.

That had been weeks ago, however. Weeks and weeks. Months, even. She had improved significantly since the first time he had laid eyes on her, skin caked in grime and voice a rasp as she knelt at his feet and sobbed her loyalty to him – precious gasps of _my Lord_ and _you came_ and _my loyalty did not waver, never, never, never,_ and she had cried and had not stopped until she had fallen asleep, hours after.

And touching her had not helped; telling her that, yes, he knew the depths of her loyalty did not help, and telling her that she would be rewarded for it all certainly had not helped. She had only cried more, and at one point she had even driven herself to sickness with her sobbing.

Above all, what remained with him was the mark on her neck. A reminder of her time in Azkaban, a dark tattoo—a _brand._ It had made him furious—she was _his,_ and no one marked what was his except for him, as irrational a sentiment it was. All prisoners were marked. Of course Bellatrix was not the exception. And yet he wanted to put a glamour over it, he wanted to scratch it off with his nails—anything to get rid of it.

He realized that he was staring at it even now, eyes narrowed into slits – a hand reached up to touch it, to touch _her,_ curving around the side of her neck, squeezing lightly.

"I am yours, my Lord," she said breathlessly as she correctly guessed his line of thought, staring up at him. Judging by the warm pleasure that flickered throughout her tone, she would collapse to the ground, weak and boneless, if he were to step away. "Always yours. Yours, yours—yes, yes, yours..."

He hissed, more pleased than he should have been to hear those words coming from her mouth. He knew very well the facts of the situation, after all. Bellatrix was his, wholly, completely. He had marked her long before Azkaban ever had. What was his was his and what was hers was his and everything was his. _She_ was his, and he did not say such things out loud, would never say them, would not even linger on them in thought, but she was one of his more prized possessions. She always had been.

After all, who would endure the pains and trials of Azkaban and then return to him, and have just as much loyalty instilled into them — if not more — as before? Bellatrix Lestrange was entirely unique in the way that she had taken hold of him in such a way, in the way that she had somehow managed to become his favorite—she still was, even despite her ruination, her insanity.

He scratched along her neck with his nails, not enough to break skin, not enough to hurt, but she shivered and whimpered all the same, arching her back; he brushed his thumb over her pulse, feeling it thrum rapidly underneath his fingertip.

The Dark Lord pulled his servant in. "Mine," he said, and her shuddering whine was swallowed by his mouth.


End file.
